


take a shot, leave your lip gloss

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jon Snow knows something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 07:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10157972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: As a rule, Sansa Stark does not drink alone. Until, that is, she's forced into an existential crisis and no one's around to tell her to get a grip. So while she stumbles into family friend—and entirely smitten—Jon Snow's pub on her own, he'll make sure she doesn't leave that way.





	

Sansa doesn’t usually hit the bars by herself; it’s no fun, and if she fancies a drink alone she’d prefer to cozy up on her couch with a bottle of moscato and a bad film, or that playlist of break-up songs Margaery put on her computer after that nasty split with Joffrey. ( _Fuck_ Joff, by the way.)

Tonight, though, Sansa’s not sure that the power of goddess Gloria Gaynor can help her. She can’t bear to shut herself up in the confines of her small apartment with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company. On a whim she’d spent far too much on a cab downtown and ended up at The Crow, a well-reputed dive bar that Margaery swore by because she knows a guy who knows a guy, _et cetera_ , and Margaery had never steered her wrong before, especially not when it comes to a good mixed drink.

Sansa sits alone at the end of the bar and wishes Margaery was in town, but she’s on a trip with her grandmother and won’t be back for weeks. There are few others who Sansa feels particularly comfortable confiding in: her sister Arya is a phone call away, but she’s also four hours away at some rugby match, neither of their younger brothers are old enough to tag along, and Sansa couldn’t bear to text Robb. He would know something was wrong, and Sansa just knows he’d get all overprotective big brother when he inevitably wrangled an explanation from her. She loves him for that, but right now it’s not what she needs. Right now she just needs someone to _listen_ so she doesn’t have to keep thinking about it.

Right now she also needs another drink, but the bartender who’d been waiting on her the past hour must have clocked out because he’s nowhere in sight. He’d been a nice chap, Sansa reflects as she drums her fingers next to her empty glass. Sam, his name was, and he’d had a kind face and he must have seen right through her because Sansa had never had an amaretto sour with quite so much kick. Not that she’s complaining—the kick is what she’d come for.

She’s drawing patterns in the puddle of condensation her glass left behind when someone says her name—“Sansa?”

She looks up to meet the gray-eyed gaze of a familiar face on the other side of the bar, and her face splits in the sort of smile she’d begun to think was lost to her.

Jon matches her grin for grin. “I thought that was you. Can’t mistake that head of hair.”

“Oh, lots of people have red hair.”

He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone who can do it up in braids like that, though. Is that what you’ve been up to the past few months, those braids?”

Sansa laughs at his chuckle. Her hair is quite simple, really, but Jon’s always been rather in awe of what Robb calls her extreme femininity. It’s no surprise, since Jon doesn’t have sisters of his own, and his relationship with the rest of the Stark children is very traditionally boyish. Sansa had never joined them all in their romps in the mud, dirt-biking, camping, what-have-you, always preferring softer activities like sketching or a long weekend at the spa with her mother. Jon was the only one who’d never given her a hard time about it; Robb used to roll his eyes at that when they were in high school, always muttering something under his breath along the lines of “Quit flirting with my sister, you idiot,” but Sansa had never put much stock in what her brother had said. Jon had always been a nice guy, and Sansa’s heart practically soars at the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles at her.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” she tells him now. “Robb made some crack about you being a _mixologist_ , but he never said where.”

“Yeah, he likes to give me shit, but it didn’t stop him from opening a tab with us.” Jon nods at her empty glass. “You want another? No charge; we can put it all on Robb’s.”

“Oh, he’d love that.”

Jon winks and snatches her glass. “Amaretto, yeah?”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Well, your high school grad party is an especially vivid memory,” Jon admits. “You sucked that bottle _dry_ , sweetheart. You had all the boys panting like dogs, I remember. I thought Robb might go on a homicidal spree—hell, I thought I’d join him.”  

Sansa laughs while Jon mixes. Her drink isn’t the only thing Jon remembers about her. Of course he’d remembered the hair and the braids and the way her laugh twists his insides in the most delicious knots. He’d remembered how sunlight shone through the cracks in her teeth when she smiled. He’d remembered how much he’d missed seeing her when she’d been away at school, and how he hated being so busy because now that she was home there should be nothing keeping him from her, but their schedules had been shit for months. Jon couldn’t keep pestering Robb about it, either; he’d already threatened to tell Sansa that Jon was madly in love with her if he didn’t “chill the fuck out, man, you’ll see her soon enough.”

Robb had said about as much in a text that afternoon, and how right he’d been.

Jon was supposed to have the night off, so he’d been a bit put-off when Sam had ducked out of the bar in favor of their shared apartment upstairs a quarter of an hour ago, but his friend had pacified him almost immediately.

“Don’t kill me if I’m wrong,” Sam had requested, “but I’m almost positive that girl whose picture you keep in your wallet is downstairs drinking through our entire stock of amaretto right now.”

Jon hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up, but Sam is rarely wrong, so he’d nearly tripped over himself in his efforts to pull on trousers and get downstairs to see for himself. And thank whatever merciful god had had enough of Jon’s admittedly pitiable state, because that _was_ Sansa Stark sitting at the end of his bar, trailing her manicured fingertips across it like she was painting, and Jon had completely lost all of the chill he’d ever had.  

“So,” Jon says now, sliding two amarettos towards her because he also remembers how well she can pound her alcohol, “you’re all caught up with me now. What’ve you been up to?”

Sansa points between her glasses. “Drinking.”

“For, what, three straight months?”

“Well…” She takes a long pull from the first glass and smacks her lips together. “Sometimes I take a break to braid my hair.”

Jon chuckles again—he’s a _chuckler_ , Sansa remembers that; never a big boisterous laugher, just a genuine, quiet chuckler—and switches the music from Sam’s preferred soft indie rock to the twangy country Sansa has always been a sucker for. Seems like she could use the pick-me-up. She may be smiling something fierce, but her bloodshot eyes tell a different story; even if they didn’t, Jon would have guessed it as soon as he realized she’d come downtown by herself. Sansa Stark had never been an isolated person—or at least she’d never been one to prefer solitude over the company of others—so her loneliness tonight is a red flag as far as Jon is concerned, and he wonders how carefully he ought to tread.

“Okay, funny girl,” he says, “what’ve you _really_ been up to? Robb said you were a coffee wench for some big schmoe at a record label—Mockingbird, I think it was, yeah?”

Sansa’s face falls, which she must have known since she downs the rest of her first drink and makes for the second. “Ah, yeah. I am.”

 _Bingo._ Jon presses on. “Yeah? Tell me about that.”

She shrugs one slim shoulder, and Jon can’t help but notice how good the pale skin there looks against the bright purple of her dress. “Not much to tell. I get the coffee, sort mail, sit in on a meeting if I can sneak in, but then I’m practically invisible there. I know that doesn’t sound exciting, but it’s actually even less exciting than that.”

“Do you like it?”

“Ah…” She shrugs again. “It’s alright. It’d be better if I ended up with a promotion, you know? But you’ve got to pay your dues first, and honestly I just… I don’t know if I’m willing to do that. Not that I don’t want to work hard,” she’s quick to clarify. “I don’t think I can just go straight to the top or anything, and I always knew showbiz was a tough gig, no matter if you’re in the limelight or behind the scenes. I guess I just didn’t think it’d be quite… Well, quite the way it actually is.”

“Hmmm,” Jon purses his lips thoughtfully, although he doesn’t have many thoughts at all. It’s clear that Sansa’s upset about something, and she’s had a lot to drink in her efforts to cope with it, but Jon can’t put his finger on anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa mutters at the bar. Her fingers are tracing patterns on the wood again. “I’m not making any sense.”

“Hey, don’t get all blue on me now.” Jon nudges her chin with his index finger so she’ll meet his eye again. “I figured something was up when I saw you sitting here by yourself. We can talk about it if you want.”

Sansa crinkles her nose and Jon wonders how someone can be adorable and drop-dead gorgeous all at once. “Am I that transparent?”

“No, you’re just that tipsy.” Jon’s mouth twitches when she snorts. He braces his hands on the bar and leans towards her. “Go on, tell me what’s really going on at that job of yours, eh? If it’s that bad you can quit and come work for Sam and me. We don’t have any pretty girls on the payroll, anyway. Bad for business.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sansa throws her napkin at him. “All you boys are the same, you know that? You think you can flirt with me and my knees’ll just seize up from how hard you make them buckle, and then I’ll just do whatever you say. _Honestly_ , you think you can call me pretty and I’ll just— _ugh_. Forget it, I told you, I’m not making any sense.”

“Reckon I’m following you this time,” Jon says, all humor gone from his voice now. The more she talks, the easier it is to put two and two together to figure out what’s making her drink so much. Jon’s tempted to cut her off, but he’d rather her drink here than go gallivanting off on her own someplace else; at least here he knows she’s safe from the sort of people who’ve apparently driven her to guzzling amaretto like it’s her life force.  

“My boss is just such a _prick_ , you know?” Sansa suddenly bursts. She drains her second drink and keeps sucking on the rim because damn it, she needs all the drunken fortitude she can get right now. “I mean, he was super helpful at first—he vouched for me, was willing to give me a shot straight out of school and everything, he really put on the mentor hat and I was so _stupid_ , Jon, I just fell for it like I didn’t know any better but I _do_ know better and I should have _seen_ what was going on. But it’s just so hard to tell, because all the interns and assistants just go along with it because it’s the only way to get ahead so it doesn’t actually seem wrong to pop a couple buttons on your blouse or hitch your skirt up or whatever. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, it’s practically in the job description to laugh all _flirtatiously_ when one of the uppers hits on you, like you’re supposed to make them think they actually have a chance in hell and, hey, maybe they do because it’s not like you want to be an intern forever and it can’t be _that bad_ to fuck your boss, can it? You’ll probably only have to do it once before another pretty young thing comes to the office and so he forgets about you, but who cares because you’ve already got your promotion and all it took was about three and a half minutes of an inept dick.”  

Jon’s not sure whether he should laugh or not. He’s sure Sansa hadn’t meant it to be funny, but “three and a half minutes of an inept dick” just isn’t something he ever expected to hear from the proper, pink-glossed lips of Sansa Stark.

He makes her another drink and pops the top off a beer for himself. His hands are only shaking a little bit.

“Not that I’ve actually done it,” Sansa continues as if she can see the quake in his fingers. “I mean, I don’t even care if anyone else does it, I just don’t think we should _have_ to. I don’t think I should actually have to think about it this hard. But Petyr—that’s my boss, Petyr, he’s just so… I don’t know. He just gets worse and worse every day. I never minded being the coffee gopher, you know? But now I sort of want to poison his or something.”

She almost expects Jon to balk at that, but then she remembers who she’s talking to. He takes a swig of his beer and says, “I’ll provide your alibi. So long as you promise to provide mine in case I get to him before you do.”

“My knight in shining armor.”  

“You deserve one.” The words are out before Jon can consider them. He means them, wholeheartedly, but Robb’s old mantra is still playing in his head— _Quit flirting with my sister, you idiot_. But Robb hasn’t said that in years, and anyway Jon wouldn’t call this flirting; “wooing” is far more appropriate. “Wooing unsuccessfully” is even better, but Jon prefers to be optimistic.  

Sansa smiles and it’s half genuine, half the saddest thing Jon’s ever seen. She traces the rim of her glass with her ring finger, then stops to take a pull of what’s mostly straight amaretto. “I just never thought everything would end up being this stupid. I never thought my boss would try to feel me up in the kitchenette. Like, what’s _that_ about? I spilled my coffee all over myself on purpose just to get out of there, and—I know this is the least of my problems but that was a new shirt and now it’s ruined.”  

Jon pours a shot and takes it. He might have to down a whole bottle of tequila before he’s ready to hear about some creep trying to cop a feel on Sansa, and even then he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it like a rational human being. He’s never been rational when it comes to Sansa, but this is a whole new level and it makes him want to punch his fist through the nearest wall. The notion is too inanely macho to solve anything, but it might relieve some of his newly acquired tension if he had to tend to his busted knuckles.

“It’s just been an _exceptionally_ long day,” Sansa says, tilting her glass towards him as though it explains everything. Which, Jon supposes, it sort of does. “I’m sorry to dump on you like this, I just… It’s like I get out of one bad situation—like Joffrey, you didn’t know Joffrey, but—”

“Robb told me,” Jon tells her. Something like shame stirs in his gut. “I would have come to see you, Sansa. I would have. I _wanted_ to. But Robb said no.”

Sansa waves off his apology. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me like that. I was embarrassed.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I know that now. But at the time…” Sansa trails off, then shakes her head. “I’m moving past it. I have to. Joffrey is so far out of the picture it’s almost like I never knew him at all. I wish I didn’t. But he’s out of my life and as soon as I start putting all the pieces back together, something like this happens. I go from one bad situation to the next with hardly a break in between. I really thought this job was going to be so good for me, but all it’s done is make me feel like I never should’ve put my faith in romantic comedies. I mean—” she laughs a little— “it’s not like Petyr’s my idea of a leading man, that’s not what I’m getting at. Just… it seems like there’s no genuinely good guys, and it’s the most frustrating thing in the world because I really thought there were. I want to be cynical but I _can’t_ because I still believe there’s got to be a happy ending, even though all I’ve gotten is a boyfriend who made me feel like the scum on the bottom of his shoe and a boss who’d sooner bend me over the conference table than actually think I’m worth something and I just—”

She swipes at the dampness in her eyes and Jon’s fingers twitch. “I’m just so _tired_. And I hardly even know what I want anymore. I want to say that I just want a nice guy, you know? But it’s not true. That’s not _it_. I want something more than nice. But—” she downs the second shot Jon pours on impulse and places in front of her— “god, it would be a good jumping-off point, don’t you think?”

“Well, not to hit on you when you’re in a delicate state and everything, but _I’m_ pretty nice.”

His comment sends her laughing, just as he’d meant it to.

“Oh, god, but you _are_ nice, though,” Sansa laments, her laughter fading into a groan. Jon’s not sure why she says it like that, but he _is_ sure why the little whimper at the end of her words twists his stomach in knots. He finds enough self-awareness within to feel embarrassed, but not that much. “Oh, blech, you’re _nice_ and you’re _handsome_ and you make _jokes_ —”

“The trifecta.”

“Oh, see—” Sansa sighs, gestures vaguely, then brings her glass to her lips with a small shake of her head— “see, there’s a joke.”

“Not a very good one.”

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

If Jon could make his voice as filthy as his thoughts, he’s sure he’d say something along the lines of _Come upstairs with me and I’ll go down on you_ or something equally callous and rather clumsy. But Sansa doesn’t deserve callous and she doesn’t deserve clumsy and she doesn’t deserve his stupid lecherous thoughts; she deserves _poetry_. She certainly deserves Jon’s tongue in her, but to be fair Jon feels that he deserves that, too. Not that he feels he _owns_ her or that she _owes_ him or _anything_ , he just thought… Well, it would just be nice—Jon cringes at how flat the word falls—to eat her out.    

 _Nice._ Please. Eating her out would be in a whole other universe apart from just _nice_.

Should he tell her that?

No. Surely not. Maybe if she were sober, Jon admits privately, but she’s not so he won’t. She’s had enough of guys like that to last a lifetime, and that’s just not _Jon_.

Sansa sighs into another empty glass. “I should probably call for a cab, shouldn’t I?”

“What for?” Jon asks, too quickly to completely mask his panic. Not that he’s _panicking_ just because she might leave; that would be pathetic. “They’ll charge you an arm and a leg to get you all the way back to your apartment. You’re more than welcome to stay here, Sansa, Sam and I’ve got the space upstairs and plenty of room.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition, it’s an invitation.” Jon clears her glasses and wipes down the puddles left behind. “Come on, I’ll walk you up, get you settled.”

Sansa cocks an eyebrow in what Jon assumes is meant to be somewhat incredulous, but in her current state she doesn’t quite pull it off; somehow that only makes his heart ache for her a little more. “You’re going to leave me alone in your room?”

“Nice try, but Edd just pulled up.” Jon nods towards the window, out of which Sansa can see a slightly older, reedy man coming up the sidewalk. “He’ll take it from here, and I can stay with you. I can hold your hair back—wouldn’t want you to ruin it by puking all over yourself.”

“I won’t _puke_ ,” Sansa mutters, offended, as she hops off her stool only a little less gracefully than she would have had she been sober. She lifts her chin and purses her lips. “I do have some self-control, you know.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Jon replies, and takes another shot. Surely he’ll need it, if Sansa Stark’s staying the night.

* * *

The upstairs apartment’s not really anything to write home about, but Jon is grateful at least that Sam and his girlfriend Gilly had the foresight to add the touches Jon would have overlooked if he lived alone. He would have been satisfied with the television and Ikea furniture alone, but Sam and Gilly prefer the comfort of a few throw pillows and crocheted blankets, some potted plants and flea market canvas paintings, paper lanterns in the kitchen and the nice-smelling foamy hand soap for the bathroom.

Jon still isn’t sure that it’s all that much, but Sansa smiles when he opens the door and she tells him, “Oh, this is so _you_ , isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Jon scratches the stubble on his cheek. He glances around the space but doesn’t seem to be seeing what Sansa is. “Well, I like it, in any case.”

He leads her down the short hallway to his bedroom, which is in a right state—bed unmade with his laptop open on his pillow, clothes tossed carelessly on top of the dresser, closet open and spilling discarded socks and shoes. He’d left the box fan on and it had scattered receipts and invoices everywhere, too. Jon only hopes the mess makes him look like an _important businessman_ than the actual lackadaisical slob he tends to be.

“Er—sorry for the mess.” He flicks the string on the disheveled blinds next to the bed to close them. “I don’t exactly anticipate bringing girls up here, otherwise I might’ve been more prepared.”

“I think I might’ve been a little suspicious if your room wasn’t the pigsty I expected,” Sansa admits with a little lopsided smile. She picks her way over the haphazardly-lain rug over the floorboards to his dresser, where his mirror is blotchy from a lack of Windex and countless snapshots are stuck in the frame. “I use my vanity as a photo album, too. It looks like you’ve got a lot of the same pictures as me.”

“Yeah?” Jon joins her at the dresser and tries not to look at their reflection. He glances once or twice and it looks so _good_ that he fears he might not be able to tear his eyes away if he lets them linger too long.

Instead, he follows her gaze as it flicks from photo to photo. They’re mostly group shots—Jon and Robb at their high school graduation, their caps on sideways, tongues out, their hands splayed in rock ‘n’ roll stance; a blurry shot of Arya on the back of Bran’s wheelchair, the two of them speeding down a small hill in their subdivision (unpictured was a furious Catelyn Stark, who’d given them all a good talking-to afterwards); Rickon astride Sansa’s shoulders at a fireworks show before he’d grown six more inches to tower over his sister; a few shots of the kids and the dogs their parents bred; one of Jon, Sam, and Edd, beer bottles raised in a toast, taken by Gilly after they’d opened the bar; Robb with his arm around Sansa, a paper crown crooked on her head and a joking grimace on her face while her brother planted a happy birthday kiss on her cheek.

“Oh, why did you keep this one?” Sansa half-giggles, half-groans, tapping on one of the pictures. In it she’s brandishing a half-empty bottle of sweet liquor and laughing at something Jon had said while he snapped the camera. She’s wearing his track-and-field zip-up, the hood pulled up over her mane of red hair that had still managed to spill over her shoulders in uncontrollable waves. She was _fun_ and she was _gorgeous_ and she’d looked so _good_ like that and it’s precisely who she is and all Jon wants is for her to remember that about herself.

“Oh, I’ve got two of those,” Jon informs her as solemnly as he can through his grin. “Yeah, I keep the other one in my wallet.”

“In your _wallet_?” Sansa’s not sure if she should feel a flutter in her stomach at his admission, but flutter she does and she’s not sorry for it. “God, _why_?”

He shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “So I can look at it any time I want.”

“That’s weird,” Sansa says before she can think about it.

Jon snorts because he knows she’s right. “I’ll get rid of it if you want me to.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror and she knows he’d do whatever she asked him to. “No, don’t. It’s only weird if I didn’t like it. But… Well, I do. It’s nice. You’re _nice_ , Jon.”

“And you’re drunk,” Jon teases, although it’s a wonder he can say anything at all since his gut just exploded with butterflies at the softness of her voice. He can’t keep looking at whatever stupid expression he’s got in his face, so he turns away from his reflection to focus solely on Sansa. “You’ll wake up tomorrow thinking I’m the weirdest guy you’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, right.” Sansa’s fingers are toying with an undone button on his shirt and Jon’s sure he’s a touch away from a heart attack. She talks to his collarbone and her voice is nearly a whisper. “I’m really glad I ended up at your bar tonight. I missed you. Sometimes I thought about calling you when things started to go sour.”

Jon swallows, but it’s all nerves and dryness and it does nothing to steady the hands that itch to hold her. “Why didn’t you?”

Sansa presses her lips together in thought, then pops them apart to answer, “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“San—” Jon stills her twitching fingers with his own. Her skin is hot under his own, and he wants to feel her fingertips drag over every inch of him. Straight tequila makes him bold, so he doesn’t think twice about what he says to her now. “You could never bother me. For god’s sake, I keep your picture in my bloody wallet. There’s nothing you could do wrong that would make me take it out.”

“Why’d you never call _me_ , then?”

“Because I’m an idiot?” Jon wishes he had a better explanation, but there’s nothing that doesn’t end up just like that: Because he doesn’t feel like he’s good enough for her, even though she’s standing here and she’s telling him that he is. Because Robb might punch him, even though Robb’s more likely to punch him if he doesn’t just shut up and _go for it_ already. Because he’s a nervous wreck whenever she’s near, although he’s done rather well tonight. Because she’d always looked so good, been so good, that Jon doesn’t know that he can hold a candle to her, even when she’s looking at him like he makes the world spin. Because he doesn’t know if he can be what she needs—but, _god_ , does he want to be.  

His grip slips from her hand to her wrist; he traces her pulse and feels it speed up beneath his touch.

“I should have called.” His voice is thick and it’s hoarse and it sends a chill down her spine and compels her to step closer. Their toes nudge and he has to dip his head a little to make sure she hears him. “I should have come to see you. I should have—” his free hand clutches her hip— “I should have told you so much earlier, every day, that you’re beautiful and I want you more than anyone else who’s touched you because, Sansa, I swear, they don’t deserve you. And maybe I don’t, either, but I can _try_ —”

She stands on her toes just as he bends to catch her lips, and they collide in sudden, shaking breaths that taste like the sweetest relief. Her mouth opens under his and his hands span her back and pull her flush against him. She clutches at his shirt collar and bites his lip and slides her amaretto-soaked tongue against his.

His hand twists in the braids in her hair when they tumble onto his unmade bed. His laptop is jostled off the pillow and falls to the carpet but, fuck it, he can buy a new one if he has to. Sansa’s hands are tugging at his button-down until he shrugs out of it and tosses it aside. He unzips the back of her dress, just to get his hands on the smooth expanse of her back, and she whimpers into his mouth when his knuckles brush the ridges of her spine.

“I think you might be perfect,” she mumbles into the kiss.

She’s straddling his hips and all he wants is to _take_ her, just like this, with her dress undone and bunched up around her thighs. With her hands in his hair and her lips on his. With her sweet and tangy taste on his tongue.

His short fingernails graze her thigh, right where the hem of her skirt is hitched. “Can I?”

Her heart thrums. “ _God_ , please.”

Jon takes her mouth again, harder and faster and with every last shred of longing he’s so long harbored for her. His fingers slip under her dress and his hips buck to meet the slow rotation of hers—“ _Fuck_ , Sansa”—and when he touches her he thinks he really might have had that heart attack, after all, because he touches her and she is _heaven_.

She is worth everything that so many have tried to take away from her, and Jon swears on his life that she is everything good that’s left in the world.

* * *

Sansa stirs when dawn is peeking through the blinds. She crinkles her nose at the disturbance, and sticks her tongue out at the smirk on Jon’s face.

“It’s too early for you to look so smug,” she informs him, her voice rough from lack of sleep and the wonderful abundance of what he’d done to her.

“How smug do I look?” he wants to know, his voice a cheeky undertone that makes her shiver.

“Like cat-who-caught-the-canary smug.”

“Hmmm.” His hand slips to her waist and tugs her into his chest. He’ll never get used to the way she feels pressed against him. “You’re a good canary.”

“Oh, am I?” Sansa’s hand curls against his heartbeat and she hums contentedly into his throat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

His lips brush her forehead as he closes his eyes against the comfort of her scent mingled with his own. “As it was intended.”

They keep to Jon’s bed the rest of the day, and Sansa thinks that drinking alone may have turned out better than she’d given the idea credit for.


End file.
